


The Dangers of Living

by spastasmagoria (Spastasmagoria)



Series: And Life Goes On [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, Warstan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:08:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9341213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spastasmagoria/pseuds/spastasmagoria
Summary: Sherlock and Molly have settled in to everyday life. The Watsons live in the C flat. One big happy crime fighting family. Until... death from above. Part of the And Life Goes On series





	1. Chapter 1

“Well,” Molly whispered, standing in the doorway of the C flat of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock hadn’t been upstairs when she’d come home, and so she’d checked for him down here. And sure enough, here he was. On the sofa. Snuggled up with Mary. Asleep. That wasn’t the alarming part. 

That would be the seventeen bags from various shops, all high-end, scattered around them on the floor and the coffee table. 

Biting her lips together for a moment, she contemplated the options. All of them seemed awkward. So she slowly closed the door and headed up the half-flight of steps that lead toward the ground floor, just as the front door opened. Jumping back a little, she started when John came in, child tucked under one arm, and a sack full of groceries in the opposite hand. She grabbed the bag from him immediately as he shut the door, so he could focus his attention on the wriggling child in the purple corduroy jacket. 

“Thanks for that. Mary home yet?” He tossed the girl over his shoulder, despite her howling shouts to be put down. 

“Er, um. Yes?”

He walked past her, and she followed, the milk and bread and other necessities rustling in the plastic bag. “Oh good. She was taking Sherlock out to--” he stopped in the doorway. “Well.” 

“That’s what I said.”

He shrugged and put the toddler down. She went running, screaming, into her room. “I may have let her have ice cream for lunch. Won’t be doing that again.” 

Sherlock and Mary didn’t stir, despite the noise. His long legs were stretched under the coffee table, between two tissue-covered bags, and his arm was around Mary, who was curled up on his side. 

John stepped over one of the bags as he unbuttoned his coat. “I don’t want to get the bill for this.” 

“Sherlock’s an idiot. He probably paid for everything.” 

“What the hell did they get?” 

Molly poked her head into a few of the bags. “Um… jumpers. Men’s jumpers.” That was said with surprise. It wasn’t like Sherlock wore them. Must have been for a case. “Aww, that’s a cute scarf. Lovely purple. New shoes. His and hers.” Squinting she looked past the paper in another one. “Dark glass cat figure? Maybe he thinks I’m running a cult.” He kept buying them for her. It was weird. The carved marble one had been enough, really. “Hmm. Tea. A lot of tea.” 

“Why is it in that bag?” John groaned, because he knew the answer. 

Molly winced. “It’s really expensive tea.” 

“We don’t need expensive tea.”

Molly pushed the paper back in the bag. “Well, I don’t know. WE don’t need it. We still have the seven-year-old emergency tea in the back of the spice cupboard. I can’t even pronounce the names on some of them.” She stood up. “I’m not going through the rest. I don’t want to be frightened.” She handed John back his groceries. “Have fun.” She headed toward the door. 

“Wait, you’re not going to leave me here with this?” 

“I can’t think about it right now. They’ve shopped so hard they’ve passed out.” 

“They were supposed to be going for shoes.” 

“Well, they each have multiple pairs now. Tell her if the Louboutins pinch, I’ll take them off her hands.” With a wave, she closed the door behind her and made her escape as fast as possible. Those two couldn’t be left alone. They got into trouble. But she’d deal with that later. She had a cat that needed to be fed.

 

##

“I don’t BUY shoes.” 

Mary slapped him on the shoulder, then picked up her tea off the kitchen table. “They don’t magically appear on your doorstep--oh you’ve got to be kidding--” 

Sherlock smiled slowly, turning the page of his newspaper.

She slapped him again. “Look. I’m sorry your shoes were… mauled. Or whatever you and John were doing last night, but I’m going to fix it. I’m going to get you new ones.” 

“I wear very specific shoes.” 

“You can cope with a different pair of shoes until yours arrive.” 

“Or I can just not go outdoors until they are ready.” He looked toward the window and the overcast sky. 

Wiping her hands on her napkin, Mary sighed. “You’ve got to have more than one pair of shoes.” 

“I have seven. Two destroyed, one worn through, the rest for...disguise.” 

“And you can't wear any of them to go shopping?” 

Sherlock was silent for a bit. He glanced over the obituaries. Boring, common. Old people. They were dull. Death by cancer was dull. The obituary for the cow was interesting. That one must have slipped by the editors. He folded the paper neatly and set it on his lap. “I don’t go shopping.”

“It’s just shoes.” 

“I don’t shop.” 

She finished the last bite of her toast. “You have to shop. People need things. Like food. Don’t tell me you send Molly off for everything.” 

He looked down at the paper on his lap. Damn. He was out of reading material. “We have groceries delivered. That’s John’s problem, you know. You can just put milk on auto-delivery and you will get it every three days like clockwork. For the rest? There is the Internet.” 

Mary threw down the napkin. “You’re kidding.” 

“Neither of us like shopping. The Internet brings us things.” 

“Well, today, you are going to experience the mundane art of making a purchase in an actual shop.” 

He wrinkled his nose. “You’re just going to harass me until I do your bidding, aren’t you?” 

Mary slid her arm under his, and hugged it. “I’ll win eventually. I do know advanced torture techniques.” 

“LIke whining incessantly?” 

“Just for that I am getting shoes too. And you’ll have to wait while I try them on.” 

“I. Don’t. Shop.” 

“Phobia, or mania?” She touched the side of her nose. “You look like a ‘both’ sort of person. Don’t worry, I’ll hold your hand, and I will hold you back.” 

 

Jaw set, Sherlock swallowed. “I don’t like the lights.” 

“Wear sunglasses.” 

“Don’t you just have an answer for everything. And I’m not going into big shops. I refuse. You can’t find anything.” 

“You’re a detective, you can find things in big shops if you want to.” 

“I don’t want to.” He begrudgingly got up, putting the paper next to his half-eaten plate with more force than necessary. “Let me rephrase that: I refuse.” 

“Ok, fine. I’m sure we can find a boutique-sized shop that meets your minimum requirements for shops you will actually step into. I know plenty of places we can get to from public tranit--” 

“I also do not take buses or the tube. Nor do I take yellow cabs because the drivers are always talkative, the interiors uncomfortable and garrish to look at, and they play MUSIC. If you can call it that.” 

Mary made a face at his back as he entered the bedroom, not bothering to close the door. “Aren’t we picky. Any other demands?” 

He tossed his dressing gown on the bed and began buttoning his shirt sleeves. “I get to choose where we have lunch.” 

“I don’t know how Molly puts up with you,” Mary muttered. “Nominated for sainthood.” 

“I have excellent hearing,” Sherlock called back. 

“If you were my partner, I’d have killed you by now!” She called back cheerfully. “Chop, chop. Before I am forced to smother you in your sleep.” 

Sherlock stood in the doorway, fixing his jacket. “What is it with women? You all want to smother me. Statistically--”

“This has nothing to do with the statistical probabilities of women smothering men, Sherlock. It has everything to do with people who actually know you wanting you to be quiet once in awhile.” 

“Then why don’t you just go for the throat? Molly has the medical knowledge to just slice my vocal cords clean through. And I’m sure you can rip a man’s trachea out if you--”

“Don’t finish that statement.” Mary put her own coat on, then searching for her gloves. It was far too chilly for mid-autumn, and she hated it. She slid her arm into his again. “Now. Let’s do some very proper shopping.” 

“Quick shopping. That doesn’t harm my brain.”

“Of course, of course.” She lead him out the door, proud to have won this round. 

##

John looked at the receipts. “And that is how you got Sherlock to spend six hours shopping?” 

Mary shrugged innocently as she crawled into bed. “Well, and we made a game of it.” 

“To see who could spend the most? Do you know how many zeros are tacked onto the price of this pair of shoe--no wait. Molly can deal with that. That’s the last four of his card.” John had used it enough over the years to know Sherlock’s PIN, three of his card numbers and the expiration dates. “THIS one is certainly ours, though. A rustic chandelier? When the hell is THAT being delivered?” Sometimes, John regretted that his best friend and his wife got along. 

“I’m tired of the light fixture in the kitchen. And it’s not really a chandelier, it’s this twisted iron piece with multiple lights on it that dangles...” 

“That kitchen is your Taj Mahal.” 

Nodding, she pulled up the blankets. “Yeah. Pretty much. But it’s mostly because Sherlock won’t let me redo his.” 

John put a hand over his eyes. “I love you. You make me insane.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Take your clothes off and get into bed before I get cold. And if you’re nice, I’ll put on the expensive shoes.” 

##

While he was kissing her back, Molly made an absent gesture. “I don’t want to know. This is why we keep the finances separate. So I don’t have to know.” She moaned. “Mmm. That’s nice.” 

How very reserved of her. He’d found the spot above her hips that made her toes curl, and it was just ‘nice.’ “That’s exactly what I’m saying. It isn’t a problem.” 

“Good.”

“Exactly.” 

“Exactly.” 

And there. Just like that it was over, and they had decided not to discuss it. Sometimes life could give one favors like that. Unlike John who always pitched a fit about everything. He’d spent his own money on several of Mary’s purchases and John had still raised a fuss, as if Sherlock shouldn’t have done it. Which was just silly. He was just determined to be mad--if Mary had spent the money, John would be angry. And since Sherlock solved the problem of paying for the...sex shoes…” John was mad about that, too. He’d gotten texts about it. Strongly-worded ones. 

Molly turned slowly in his arms until they were facing each other, her hands resting on his shoulders. “I have to be at work by ten.” 

“On a Saturday morning? I’ll burn down the whole morgue.” 

“What I mean is, no dallying.” She turned again, sliding until she was on top of him. 

He kissed her slowly. “I thought that’s what Saturdays were for.” 

Her hand brushed down his chest, past his stomach until she found what she was looking for. “Saturdays are for you running off on a case and forgetting I exist.” 

Nipping at her shoulder with his teeth, he grinned, feeling a bit naughty. “Why, are you lonely without me?” 

“No, that’s when I commune with the cat gods. Two more statues and I will have a quorum and we can decide whether to sacrifice you or not.” Sliding down beneath him, she made putting up with her awful joking much more worth it. 

Which was until Toby jumped on her back, claws and all, and she yelped, startled. Sherlock pulled away, and Toby just clinged to her back harder with the sudden movement. 

By the time Sherlock detached the cat, and she sat on the edge of the tub while he cleaned the bleeding scratch marks, both of them were well and truly out of the mood.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death From Above fallout. Antibiotic cream used in vast quantities. Mary is overly concerned about Sherlock's junk.

He slathered antibiotic cream on the scratches liberally. "So. That was fun."

She might have grazed important parts of his anatomy with her teeth. "I said I was sorry."

"I think the cat should apologize"

"Maybe you don't understand how cats work."

He put the cap back on the ointment. "New rule. Cat is kicked out before...things happen." 

"I should have shut the bedroom door when I fed him this morning."

It had been over a year and out of the safety of the bedroom, conversations about sex were still awkward or non-existent. They still weren't even a couple, as far as most people knew. Public displays of affection made him uncomfortable, and she didn't want to push him. Not when he had worked so hard to get where he was, in his comfort level in their relationship. 

"I think he does those things on purpose."

She laughed. "You’re a cat behaviorist now too?"

He sighed, dabbing a few spots on her back. "I would keep your shirt off until that coagulates a bit more."

She turned red. "Oh my god. If I bleed through my shirt they are all going to think I had absurdly kinky sex and they will start asking questions."

Sherlock shrugged. "Not my problem." 

"You put plasters over the worst parts, right now, mister."

"He isn't my cat!"

She dug around until she found the box, then pressed them into his bare chest. "Right now. Or I will tell them all that you did it and you are into bizarre things with ropes and pulleys and...things." That was the craziest thing that she could come up with at the moment. 

"Ok, ok." Probably just the threat of saying he had done it had been enough. He still wasn't ready to talk about their relationship, and nor was she, really. The questions she got were too weird. 

He put plasters on the worst bits that were likely to continue bleeding, then kissed her shoulder. "Better?"

It still stung like crazy. But that was life with a cat. "As good as it will get." She rubbed her hand against his bare leg. "Be good while I am gone."

"You always say that."

"And yet you seldom listen."

##

"Oh shut up," Sherlock snapped, glaring at Mary. 

"She didn't say anything," John pointed out from across the bloody kitchen as his two special snowflakes installed the goddamned 'rustic chandelier' that had cost several hundred pounds and yet another chunk of his sanity. The small child on his lap giggled at the display. 

"She was thinking it. I could hear it from here." He was standing on the island, changing the wiring for the light fixture, looking down at Mary. "You can see it in her eyes."

Mary shrugged innocently, holding up the screwdriver so he could screw down the connections. 

In itself, Sherlock doing anything involving a light fixture was amazing. Mary's ability to use guilt and the logic that he was the tallest person in the flat at the moment had been even more spectacular. He would feel sorry for Sherlock, had Sherlock not egged her on to purchase the idiotic iron monstrosity they were now working on. 

"Stop it," he told her again, without even looking down from the wires.

"Sherlock, she left the flat unable to move her entire torso. Now I don't know what you two like, but--"

"Do not even finish that."

"You know, we heard you two screaming from down here," John contributed, forgetting for a moment that he hadn't wanted to be at all involved. "She can't do her job very well if you are scratching--"

Sherlock slammed the fixture so hard into place, he cut John right off. He twisted the screwdriver with drama as he tightened each of the screws, then jumped off of the counter. He pointed the screwdriver at both of them, his jaw clenched. 

Eventually he sighed. "It was the cat."

Mary laughed in disbelief. "Then why were you screaming too?"

Teeth bared and clenched, his nose flared. "None of your business." He dropped the screwdriver onto the coffee table. "Goodbye, Billie. You are the only one I like right now." 

The small girl laughed as Sherlock turned on his heels and left, slamming the door behind him. 

John looked down at his daughter. "He is just one big game to you, isn't he? Everything he does is funny."

"Uhh huh." 

Mary crashed into the wooden chair next to him, sighing. "You don't actually suppose it was the cat, do you?" 

John wrinkled his nose. "Not a chance in the world."

##

Molly returned home flushed and exhausted. Everything hurt. Even things that had not been injured hurt. There had been multiple car crash victims and she had ended the day on a low when she tried to think up some excuse for Morgan, who was coming in to relieve her. He had asked why she was so stiff and why her shirt was stuck to her back. The first thing that had come to mind, then out of her mouth, was a tumble down the steps. 

Realizing how that had sounded, she had vacated the morgue at top speed, not even bothering with her coat. 

Not feeling like being jostled around and touched on public transit, she decided to shell out for a cab. She chose not to think of what Sherlock spent yearly on black cabs. A yellow one would do her nicely.

Or so she thought. It had been a while. She took mass transit on her own, and Sherlock always insisted on a black cab. Now she remembered why. The weird smell, the noise...the hard seats...all things she could have done without on a day like this.

By the time she got home, she just wanted to take painkillers and sleep it all off. 

The flat was empty when she got back, which didn't surprise her. Most of the time she didn't even bother checking to see where Sherlock was. Either she would distract him, which wasn't good, or he wouldn't be in a position to respond. She would wait until later tonight or tomorrow to text John, if they weren't back by then. 

Opening the can of food for Toby, she thought about bending over and putting it into his bowl. That was incredibly unattractive. So she broke a personal rule and let him eat from the can, on the counter. Just this once, she promised. Just this once.

Leaving Toby to it, she went into the bathroom and peeled off her shirt. The bandages looked ok. She just felt like hell. Hopefully it wouldn’t get infected. 

She ought to have just taken herself off for some antibiotics. But this was easily the stupidest thing to happen to her in ages. She’d give it until tomorrow. If it looked inflamed, she’d see someone on Monday. But for now it was probably ok. 

She dug in the medicine cabinet for the pain killers Sherlock had been given when he’d landed on his face last spring. She was a doctor, she could meter her own dose, thank you very much. Swilling one down with tap water, she tossed her shirt into the pile in the corner of the bedroom and flopped into her favorite position--face down on Sherlock’s side of the bed. 

##

 

Sitting at the kitchen table, Mary stared at Sherlock, who was invested equal parts in his microscope and ignoring her. Resting her head on her hands, she blinked pointedly. "So?"

He sighed. "It was the cat. And why am I defending myself to you? My business is just that--my own."

Her eyes lit up in mock surprise. "Oh no it isn't. Not when you wake my toddler up two floors down."

He wrote something in his notes then changed slides. "It was the cat. Now go away."

She looked him over. "Oh my god. You aren't lying. You poor thing." She pressed her fingers to her lips, putting the pieces together. Molly was asleep on the bed, drug induced if she had to guess. And Sherlock was... "Please tell me it's alright. That everything is still functioning. She didn't bite it hard, did she? Can I make you tea?"

Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, he sighed. "IT is fine. Everything is fine. Molly will be fine and Toby has been kicked out of the bedroom indefinitely. See? Nothing else for you to stick your nose into."

It was quiet while they both stared at each other, each anxious to have the last word. "But yes I would like some tea."

"Cinnamon Sleepytime?"

"No, I want tea-tea. Not that...rubbish new age drink for Yoga practitioners and women who smoke too much marijuana."

Mary bit her lips, looking the box over. "I don't think Mrs Hudson inhales. I'm sure it is in the brownies." She tapped the box with her finger. "Ohhhh. I wonder if you can brew it. What if it's in the tea?" The last she whispered, holding up the box. "Maybe the cinnamon is to cover the smell."

"Molly does not do drugs."

"SHE certainly didn't have a prescription for those drugs currently knocking her out."

"Molly does MY drugs. That is different." He held his head up proudly. "And I had them left over because I didn't use them all when I bloody well could have."

Still, he took the box from her hand and pulled out a tea bag, looking it over and sniffing it. "It is cinnamon and chamomile. And red dye." 

"I had you going," she teased, taking the tea back. 

"There is no way they would permit those things to be mass produced if they contained class B drugs. The end."

Mary smirked to herself as she filled the kettle and turned it on. "I was just making up stories. You are in such a mood."

"Do you think John would be incredibly congenial in my place?"

"No. But we don't have a cat."

"I'm not talking to you anymore." He turned back to the microscope. "Put enough sugar in my tea this time."

"Sleepytime tea, you say?"

Sherlock sighed but didn't respond. He had real problems to worry about. Like this pond water, for instance. Which was much more interesting than his abused penis. 

##

Molly woke up groggy and yawning about two hours after dinner. She stumbled into the sitting room shirtless. “Sherlock? Did you feed the cat?” she called out toward the noise in the kitchen. 

“He’s not in, but I did feed the cat,” Mary called back. 

“Case?” she asked, flopping into her chair. 

“I don’t know. I think those two just wanted to get away from me. Which is fine.” 

Molly heard something pop, then click into place. The water started from the tap, going faster than it had before. “What’s that?” 

“I replaced the sink fixture. I bet the great detective won’t even notice. It does spray and jet now.” 

“It’s only got the one handle.” She lifted it up and down. 

“No more double knobs!” Mary grinned, so pleased that yet another sink had been brought into the 21st century. 

Molly gulped down the water, then looked at her chest. “I’m not wearing a top.” 

Mary shrugged. “Pull on the neck of the faucet. It’s a hose. It comes out. I’m going to put one in my bathroom.” 

Molly stared at the unintended house guest. She’d just said she was half naked (which she was) and her neighbor from downstairs was more interested in sink mechanics than any sense of propriety. “You’re very odd,” Molly said, putting down the glass and going back into the bedroom. She came out a moment later with Sherlock’s second favorite dressing gown loosely draped around her. 

“But just think of it,” Mary continued. “You could just wash your hair in the sink if you needed to. Like that. It’d only take a minute. 

Without a response for that sort of logic, Molly filled up the kettle, put it on the base and turned it on. The refrigerator contained two tied off bits of sheep intestines, a half-dissected frog that had obviously been about to lay eggs, as it was utterly filled with them, milk and pre-sliced cheese. She took the entire packet of cheese out and opened it, starting in on a slice before the refrigerator door was even closed. “I keep telling him fishing line isn’t the best for that,” she grumbled. It never tied tight enough. He really ought to just use bakery string on the intestines. He claimed it changed the gas buildup. She thought he was just a lazy arse. “So where are he and John off to this time?” 

Mary shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care.” 

Fair enough. They’d just use the GPS app to track Sherlock’s phone later and take turns imagining what they were up to. Their fantasies were always far more interesting than ‘questioning a fish monger’ or ‘checking debris patterns along the Thames’ Their version always involved sexy pirates or women in very tall boots. At least their version was funnier than John dislocating his knee, or Sherlock smashing his face at the bottom of a flight of steps. 

She rubbed her face. “Where’s Billie?” 

Mary pointed to Sherlock’s chair, where the girl was curled up, sleeping. “She loves that thing. Puts her right out.” 

Molly smiled, pulling the dressing gown a little closer over her breasts. “She’s adorable. It looks like a little child-sofa when she’s on it.”

“Believe me, I have pictures.” She went to the refrigerator and looked inside. “You weren’t kidding. It’s pretty horrible in here. “Wine, beer or pain killers?” 

“All three?” 

Mary took out the bottle of wine. “Let’s see where this leads us.” 

“I suppose I need to get this looked at tomorrow. There’s no nice explanation for it, though.” 

Mary patted her on the shoulder. “Let me take a look. And I’m sure it’s not the weirdest thing a medical professional has heard. And I once had a man come into casualty with a turtle biting his penis. Cat scratches are noth--oh my.” She’d meant to be supportive, but that had drained away when she saw the angry red scratches. They were so much deeper and longer than she’d imagined. “All the discharge is clear, but I’d still get someone to look at it. John, if you don’t want to explain it to someone else.” 

Molly turned red. “The fact that he knows may make it worse.” She sighed, pulling the dressing gown up and returning to her cheese. “Sherlock has slathered it in so much antibiotic ointment it probably won’t get infected. I hope. It’s just… horrible and painful right now. I’ll get over it.” 

The cat was on top of Sherlock’s chair, sleeping perched over Billie. Mary frowned. “Bad kitty. No tearing mummy limb from limb.” 

Molly did crack a smile.


End file.
